


Resonance

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mild angst with some fluff, in which Dorian realizes his feelings for the Herald of Andraste might be more than idle flirtation, and is uncertain how to respond when they may be reciprocated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resonance

_Qunari have freckles?_

As the thought crosses Dorian's mind, he realizes how inane it sounds. He finally meets the famed Herald of Andraste, sole survivor of the Conclave, the only known living person to have traveled through the Fade in a physical body… and his first thought is, ' _Ooh, look, he has freckles'_?

But he's never been quite this close to one of the Qunari without the two of them trying to kill one another. Until now, that is. The formidable warrior stands only a few paces away, towering over Dorian and easily twice his weight.

With freckles.

Well, at least Dorian has the good sense not to blurt such idiocy aloud. Apparently, all that training at two-faced banter back in Minrathous was actually good for something. Who knew? Without betraying his ridiculous inner monologue, Dorian manages to smoothly quip about the mark on the Herald’s hand and give an introduction.

“Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

The Herald's eyes meet his as they size each other up for a moment. The Qunari’s are a bright hazel, golden-green, startling against the dusty gray of his skin. But not the flat eyes of a brute, no. His gaze analyzes Dorian, calculating threat, weighing the mage's sardonic words.

"Watch yourself," the other Qunari warns. "The pretty ones are always the worst."

And for a fraction of a second, one corner of the Herald's mouth twitches upward. Just a shadow of a smirk, really, gone before it is ever truly there.

_Did I just imagine that?_

A test, then. He meets the Qunari's gaze boldly and throws the Herald his most disarming, rakish smile.

And that is how Dorian discovers, much to his amused delight, that Qunari can also blush quite fiercely.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a bit of a personal challenge, after that.

Well, after Alexius's ordeal, of course. In that horrific potential future, the small matter of staying alive leaves little room for sport. But later, when he chooses to stay in Haven, then the game truly begins.

The Herald himself is a fascinating riddle, not at all what Dorian expects of a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. He would have predicted something much more like The Iron Bull—brash, crude, and casually violent. But Kashek is unexpectedly quiet and thoughtful for a warrior captain. Not gruff, per se, but certainly distant. Oh, he nods quietly along with Varric's jokes, but offers none of his own. Yet despite his calm wariness, he instantly demands command on the battlefield and expects his orders to be followed.

His physical appearance matches this contradiction, too. Though Kashek’s face certainly bears the scars of his profession, thin furrows beside his right eye and across the tip of his nose, his features are an incongruous mix of brutish masculinity and boyish charm. The wide, square jaw and broad nose are offset by something more approachable, a quality Dorian can't quite pinpoint. Perhaps it is those fascinating freckles, or the unguarded nature of his smile, on the infrequent occasions it breaks across his face.

Certainly, the way the Herald flushes deeply pink when embarrassed is quite intriguing. It is not prudishness, for Kashek doesn't bat an eye at the crudest of Bull's comments. However, the smallest bit of flattery makes the Herald's cheeks turn an awkward, irresistible scarlet, sometimes accompanied by that rare grin for just the briefest of moments.

It is this smile that fascinates Dorian most. Always fleeting and unexpected when it appears, it transforms the distant, imposing warrior completely. His infectious laugh is an even rarer prize.

And so Dorian sets little challenges for himself, to see how far he can press the Herald. How deeply can he make the Qunari blush today? Can he elicit a smile, or two, or perhaps even three? Perhaps even earn the reward of the Herald’s artless laughter? Flirtation is easy enough, as simple as magic, really. And Dorian is so irresistibly charismatic, after all. It would be a waste to let all that charm lie idle, wouldn’t it?

It starts small, a teasing compliment here and there when the rest of the party is out of earshot, or a boastful invitation from time to time. For his part, Kashek merely blushes, sometimes smiling a little despite himself, and gently brushes aside the comment with a change of subject. But he never protests, or frowns, or turns away.

And Dorian doesn’t fail to notice that Kashek always asks the mage to accompany him on missions. The Inquisition has two other perfectly capable mages, but Dorian is unfailingly the first companion the Herald requests.

Sometimes, he wonders about that. Does the Herald just prefer more jovial company over the stoic Vivienne or the aloof Solas? Or is there something else there? Every once in a while, he catches the Herald watching him thoughtfully, those veridium-hued eyes regarding Dorian with a puzzling expression.

Unable to resist, Dorian presses further. Once, with a well-timed compliment, he even makes the Herald flush crimson all the way out to the tips of his pointed ears. And this is how it continues for weeks. Kashek keeps Dorian nearby, but at arm’s length, neither explicitly responding to his flirtations nor rebuffing him. It is an enigma both fascinating and frustrating.

Perhaps that’s all it ever would have been, if Cassandra hadn’t been particularly pushy one morning. Just idle amusement, until Kashek pushed him away or Dorian grew bored. But when the game changes, it happens as sudden as a summer squall, and as unexpectedly.

Dorian awakens to raised voices. Suddenly alert, he bolts upright in his tent. Is it an attack? Who was on watch?

“The people need this!” Cassandra’s voice, strident and impassioned.

“Need what? Lies?” Kashek, sounding more agitated than Dorian has ever heard him. His voice is not a shout, not quite, but it is louder than usual, his tone firm. That is disconcerting enough; the warrior never raises his voice outside of battle.

Curious, Dorian parts the opening of his tent a few inches, peering out. Firelight illuminates the scene. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, though there is an orangish smudge on the horizon that hints at dawn. And yet the two warriors are both wide awake, facing one another on the other side of the camp, their body language plain. Cassandra scowls up at the Qunari, hands clenched into angry fists at her sides. The Herald stands solid before her, arms crossed, a slight frown on his face.

“But-“

“No, Cassandra. The answer is no. Drop it.”

The Seeker snarls wordlessly, then turns and stalks away. After a few steps, she calls back to him. “This is not over, Herald. It will come up again.” Then she storms off, presumably to go hit something.

Kashek sighs, uncrossing his arms and pinching the bridge of his nose as if to fend off a headache. Dorian well knows that particular effect Cassandra has on people. When the Herald turns to walk away, Dorian lets the tent flap close.

But lying on his bedroll, he finds he cannot sleep. He sighs. Fully awake before dawn. What _is_ the Inquisition doing to him?

However, he can’t help but wonder at the argument. What had Cassandra wanted, and why did it agitate her so? After a few minutes of lying awake, he gives up. Fetching his boots from a corner, he slips them on. Sleeping nearly fully-clothed is a new experience for Dorian, but as he’d rather not fend off an unexpected midnight ambush in his sleepwear, he’s learned to adapt. One can get used to anything, apparently. He doesn’t bother throwing on the extra bits of light armor, or his gloves. A quick comb through his hair with his fingertips, and a gentle smoothing out of his moustache will have to be good enough for now. Traveling is such a dreadful wear on his appearance, but desperate times and all that.

He slips from the tent and follows the way Kashek had gone. The air is heavy with a damp pre-dawn chill, enough to make him shiver slightly even beneath the heavy layers of his robes. Rain again today, joy of joys. When _doesn’t_ it rain here on these southern coasts?

At least the Storm Coast bears a slight passing resemblance to home, if one squints and pretends it's considerably warmer. Rather than the placid turquoise he knows, the ocean waves of this coastland are choppy and gray, the damp drizzle never-ending. The sea air here has an earthy, fishy scent to it, much less appealing than the mineral salt tang of the warmer breeze in Minrathous. But it is perhaps a closer match to home than the chill, snow-covered peaks of Emprise du Lion, or the sparse, wind-blown hills of the Fereldan Hinterlands.

As he passes the other tents, a gentle snoring still emanates from Varric’s. Dorian wonders briefly how the shouting hasn’t awakened him as well. Or maybe it has, and the dwarf is feigning sleep. It would be rather like him, after all. The camp is full of others, the rest of their party along with a handful of scouts and recruits who are all likely hiding in their own tents after Cassandra’s fit of temper.

Perhaps Dorian should follow their lead, but it’s a bit late to decide that now.

The Herald hasn’t wandered far, perhaps a dozen or so paces past the center of their small camp. He sits on a wide, flat bit of stone, looking out over the sea and the rocky coastline, toward the impending sunrise. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he watches the horizon.

Dorian doesn’t try to conceal his approach, his footsteps crunching on the dry grass and loose gravel. Kashek turns to regard him silently as Dorian takes a seat on the rock, an arm’s length away.

“Heard that, did you?” The Herald asks, turning to look back at the landscape.

Dorian nods. “I daresay they heard Cassandra as far away as Redcliffe.”

Kashek shakes his head with a heartfelt sigh. “She means well.”

To that, Dorian says nothing for a moment, considering. It is true. “Most of the members of the Inquisition have only the best of intentions, but none of them ever quite seem to agree on exactly _what_ those intentions are, or how to go about them.”

The Qunari snorts softly. “Indeed.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, while the sky slowly turns a dusky orange across the hills, fading to lightening indigo overhead.

“That is the heart of the problem,” Kashek finally says. “They always want _me_ to tell them what to do next, to be the one who steers this ship.” His voice is raw, strained, exhausted. It is unsettling. It’s as if the daily stress of the Inquisition has finally fully worn away the wary distance Kashek keeps, leaving only fatigue in those golden eyes.

Something turns over inside Dorian, twists uncomfortably with sympathy. “Aren’t you?” he asks quietly.

The Herald sighs, closes his eyes. “All I wanted was to scrape out a living. I didn’t ask for the weight of the world. I never wanted to be a hero.”

“Ah, well, I never wanted to be a pariah,” Dorian remarks nonchalantly, “but I do find it rather suits me. Gives me a bit of a roguish, debonair appeal, I think.” He tosses his head a little and grins at the Herald.

That finally elicits a small, tired smile from Kashek, and he turns to regard Dorian with amused eyes. It is vastly preferable to the naked weariness they’d held a moment earlier.

Dorian continues before the Herald can speak. “And perhaps you didn’t ask to be a hero, but I think you were likewise meant to be one, regardless.” He gestures at the Herald’s left hand. “Whether divine intervention or sheer coincidence, I think that mark found the person it was supposed to.”

Kashek lifts his hand, stares at his palm for a moment, then clenches it tightly into a fist. He takes a long, deep breath, exhales slowly. “Thank you.”

Silence settles again, but Dorian feels every moment of it this time. The air is heavy with… something, a tension he can’t quite pinpoint. Uncomfortable, but he doesn’t quite know what else to say, and lets the conversation lapse.

Kashek shifts awkardly. Odd. The Herald never fidgets.

Those hazel eyes meet Dorian’s again, still troubled. “Cassandra wants me to openly declare myself the Herald of Andraste,” he admits suddenly. “To agree that it was the spirit of Andraste herself who led me through the Fade.”

“Ah.” Well, that explains the Qunari’s vehement reaction. “And you don’t believe that.” It isn’t a question, not quite.

“Do you?”

Dorian shrugs, gazes back out at the rising curve of the sun peeking over the edge of the world. “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” Kashek confesses quietly. “And I won’t spread a lie just to put people’s minds at ease.”

“Even if it makes things easier?”

“No.” The Herald sighs, shakes his head softly, his voice weary again. “I won’t pretend I’m something I’m not, just to make others’ lives simpler. Even if it makes my path more difficult.” Something in his tone turns Dorian’s head away from the sunrise. Kashek’s gaze is painfully open, and yet somehow painfully piercing in its vulnerability, orange glints of the new sun reflecting in the depths of his eyes.

Once, back home, a friend had shown Dorian a party trick that involved no magic. A metal chime, when struck, would set a nearby crystal glass to vibrating and singing. _Resonance,_ he’d called it. Two seemingly disparate objects, different in many ways, but on some level attuned to one another.

Kashek’s words sink deep, stirring something that Dorian’s not sure he understands, and isn’t certain he even wants to. Resonance, an echo that thrums within him, singing back to the tune of the Herald’s pain and weariness. A mirror of his own truths, of a similar resolve, perhaps. And a sudden, aching need to wipe the despair from those eyes. Dorian’s hand twitches where it rests on his knee, then tightens into a fist as he resists the urge to reach out.

Vishante kaffas, how did they get here? The stoic Herald suddenly opening up to him like this? This was supposed to be idle amusement, nothing more than an entertaining distraction from their dire situation. Not this. It’s so far from Dorian’s comfort zone of casual camaraderie that he is suddenly, intensely afraid. These are feelings he’s not prepared to have again.

When Dorian responds, his voice is too abrupt, too loud. “Admirable, honesty like that.” Nervously, he stands and stretches. “Well, I suppose now that it’s light, I should wake the dwarf. It’s his turn to make breakfast.”

But as he walks away, he feels the Herald’s eyes following him thoughtfully. His pulse beats frantically in the back of his throat, his nerves afire. This can’t be happening. Not here, not now. Not _him_. He shakes his head, breathes in slowly, and shoves aside the first stirrings of something he doesn’t want to admit. A practiced habit, one he never expected to need here, but he can bury those feelings as deeply now as he did in Tevinter.

Idiotic infatuation, nothing more. It can be handled, ignored.

 _It’s those damnable freckles,_ he thinks to himself, smiling grimly at his own foolishness.

 

* * *

 

At least there is the mission to distract him.

It's a straightforward enough task, though not without danger. Reports of yet another new rift have surfaced on the Storm Coast, requiring the Herald's personal attention as usual. After breakfast, Cassandra leaves the party at camp to escort a group of green recruits to another Inquisition outpost. Her parting words to the Herald are curt, his stoic silence deafening.

In exchange, Sera volunteers to come along. “Been a bit since I had the chance to kick some demons up the backside,” she grins amiably, and her cheerfulness, if odd, is a welcome diversion.

Varric excuses himself, declaring that one competent archer is enough. He offers to wait at camp and show a few tricks to some of the scouts handy with a bow. “Maybe you should take the kid,” the dwarf suggests. “Would do him some good to get out and about, build some camaraderie.” Kashek agrees, and the boy ghosts along beside the group, silent as ever aside from the odd non sequitur or two.

The question of Dorian leaving the party never arises. Despite his misgivings about this morning, he doesn’t excuse himself either. Foolish, perhaps, not to distance himself. But like prodding at an open wound, it is a compulsion, to poke at these new revelations, to stir the waters. So he follows as they make their way across the stony crags in the never-ending, misty drizzle.

It is a short journey, perhaps half a day. Most of it is spent in companionable conversation. Sera teaches Cole a dirty tavern ditty, trying to explain the humor and getting frustrated when he responds only with puzzlement. After that, she turns to Dorian, baiting him with her own made-up knock-knock jokes. They’re so ridiculously terrible that eventually they actually become funny by sheer virtue of their awfulness, leaving him laughing so hard they have to stop walking for a minute.

Even Kashek laughs, and Dorian tries not to notice how his own smile echoes the Herald’s.

Finally, they reach the trickiest part of their journey. The rift is just past this rocky outcropping, according to Harding's report. The only approach runs along this cliff face, past a treacherous bit of narrow ledge. Cole ranges ahead to do some reconnaissance, the spirit's steps light and sure on the damp stone. An ideal forward scout, that one, an unexpected benefit of the boy's "forget me" ability.

Likewise, Sera easily outdistances Dorian, her slim form navigating the narrow rock shelf without difficulty. She is long out of view by the time he steps onto the narrowest part.

Dorian treads carefully, slowly navigating the slippery footing. The cliff face is a solid vertical wall under his left hand, slick with rain, while the drop to his right reveals a long fall to the sharp basalt formations and churning waves below. The path here is little more than a small stone outcropping on the edge of the larger cliff, the ledge narrowing so much that Dorian turns sideways, facing the sheer cliff that extends far above them. His feet inch sideways, slow and uncomfortable going.

"You always do take me to the most charming places," he comments to the Herald following behind him, raising his voice to be heard over the whistling sea winds. Kashek has insisted on going last, of course. As the largest member of the group, he is the most likely to get stuck on the precarious path. Sera has already circled back around to the top of the ledge above them, her form a dark silhouette against the colorless sky. She carries a rope, but there is no way she could support Kashek’s weight on her own. If the Herald reaches a portion of the ledge he is too large to pass, he will have to wait until Dorian can circle around to the cliff above as well. It will take all three of the others to steady the rope from above so Kashek can pass, if that happens. A tree would be ideal to anchor a support, but the sparse vegetation on these seaward cliffs is far too flimsy for such a task.

One footstep after the other, Dorian walks slowly sideways while the cold, rain-soaked stone under his hands coats his palms with damp grit. The sandy mud will have coated the front of his robes by now as well, and he sighs. How does he keep letting the Herald talk him into these situations?

He knows the answer now, of course, but pushes it away. _Focus,_ he reminds himself.

Too late. He doesn't see the mossy spot until his foot slips, his leg sliding out from under him. He grasps at the sheer wall with his fingertips, but they slide along the slick surface. No purchase to be found there. The base of the staff strapped to his back skitters along the stone ledge, catches against a small hollow and twists him off-balance. Jarringly, his foot slips off the edge. Bare air under that foot now. He's sliding off the ridge and there is nothing to grasp to stop the fall. Vertigo dizzies him as he catches a glimpse of the sharp, dark rocks below. A wave of panic rises to consume him, a useless rush of adrenaline. Futilely, he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, as if that will make the fall less painful.

 _This is it._ The thought flashes through his mind, lightning-fast. _Such an embarrassingly dull way to die. No blaze of glory, just rocks and water._

Somewhere, Sera is shouting, far above them, her words lost to the fickle gusts of the Storm Coast.

The impact comes suddenly, a heavy blow to his side that knocks the breath from him. But, he notices a moment later, not nearly as painful as one would expect, for death.

He opens his eyes, his mind catching up to realize he did not fall after all. Dorian is still kneeling on the ledge, right hand against the vertical stone face, left hand stretched out in a futile instinctive attempt to break the fall that never happened. His left leg still hangs off the shelf, dangling into thin air, but the Herald has steadied him. Kashek's right arm circles his waist, trapping him between the cliff wall and the fall below. The force of the arm colliding against his chest was enough to bruise some ribs, Dorian realizes, but he is alive.

Kashek looks at him with an expression Dorian has never seen before, an intense worry so piercing that Dorian has trouble meeting the Herald’s gaze for a moment. But then the Qunari’s face breaks out in a fiercely triumphant grin, and his arm tightens around Dorian. Despite the bruises, a bubbly giddiness fills Dorian so suddenly that he laughs, exuberant, though they are still very much in danger.

At that second, he regains enough sense to wonder in confusion how they didn’t both tumble to their deaths on this narrow ledge, his momentum carrying Kashek with him. Then he sees it: the Herald's sword wedged deeply into a natural crack between the stone formations, probably doing irreparable damage to the blade. Kashek’s left hand grips the hilt tightly to support Dorian’s extra weight without losing his balance.

 _How much force does it take to wedge a sword that firmly between stones?_ And how had he acted so quickly, fast enough to save Dorian? It had been but a momentary slip, so swift the mage himself had not even been able to react. How closely and anxiously had he been watching Dorian’s steps? Had the Herald actually _planned_ for this contingency ahead of time?

Above them, Sera is cheering. Impossible to make out her words, but her gleeful whoop is unmistakable.

But they are not out of the woods yet. The realization is sudden, dousing the joy of the moment. That sword could give way at any second, slipping free from the crevice. Dorian takes a deep breath, steadying himself. Kashek meets his eyes and gives a small, quick nod.

Using the Qunari as an anchor, Dorian pulls his left leg back up onto the ledge. A twinge of sharp pain in his ankle makes him hiss sharply. Something is wrenched there, but he can stand. He pushes the pain aside, a worry for later. Within Kashek’s protective arm, he gingerly stands, then twists to face the rock wall, breathing deep to reassure himself. Every nerve in his body jangles a warning as he takes an experimental step sideways, pressed even more firmly against the stone wall. Mud and grime be damned, he will wash it all out later. His left ankle throbs fiercely, but it can be borne.

Kashek seems to let go reluctantly, his arm sliding slowly away as Dorian finds his footing again.

A small flutter low in his belly. It is a sensation he knows too well. Dangerous. He ignores it.

The silence has grown too long, while Dorian steels his courage to move again. So he fills the lapse as best he knows how, with a quip. “Lovely dance, by the way.” Even to his own ears, Dorian’s voice is shaky, the adrenaline from his near brush with death still coursing through him. “Perhaps next time we can do that without the potential deadly fall onto jagged rocks and a watery grave?”

“I’d like that.” Kashek’s response is quiet, barely enough to be heard over the wind, his tone soft but serious.

It startles Dorian badly enough that it’s a wonder he doesn’t slip again. He hadn’t truly expected a response, of course. He hadn’t even been looking in Kashek’s direction. But now he turns his head to find the Herald regarding him with a strangely intense look, a small smile touching his lips.

 _It’s the adrenaline rush,_ Dorian thinks. _Making us both giddy and foolish._

So he avoids the subject. “What about your sword?” He nods toward the blade still wedged between the stones.

“Leave it,” Kashek replies, but his eyes sparkle with a mischief Dorian would never expect from the Herald. He knows Dorian changed the topic on purpose. “Too risky to try pulling it out. I’ll get another later.”

“But the rift is just past this ledge,” Dorian points out. “There are no camps to resupply beforehand. How will you battle demons without a sword?”

“A shield can be a weapon, too,” Kashek says, waving Dorian forward. “And I have you watching my back, don’t I? I’ll be fine. Let’s get off this rock.”

“Well, in that at least, I can’t agree with you more,” Dorian replies, and begins making his way gingerly along the narrowest part of the rocks. One foot, then the other, trying to ignore the growing needle-sharp twinge of pain in his ankle. His chest pulses with a dull ache too, where it is bruised, but the leg is worse. He suspects only his boot keeps it from swelling.

“You’re limping.” Kashek’s voice is low with concern.

“Well, that happens occasionally when one nearly falls to one’s death,” Dorian remarks lightly. But he softens it with the truth. “It is a minor pain. Safer ground first, demons next, then we can tend wounds.”

“We have potions,” Kashek points out. “We can spare one.”

“We may need them more later,” Dorian replies. “We have no idea how big that rift has gotten since our scouts discovered it.”

Kashek huffs out an angry breath, but falls silent for a few moments. When he speaks, his voice is quiet enough that Dorian has to strain to hear it.

“I don’t like seeing you in pain,” he admits.

 _‘You’._ _He could_ _have said, ‘one of my companions’, or even ‘a friend’, but he said ‘you’._ Dorian’s breath catches for a moment, his chest tightening. No, he is reading too much into this.

“Leave it be, please,” he asks gently, and Kashek doesn’t press further.

While he inches along, Dorian has time to ponder the Herald’s new demeanor, and realizes what a fool he’s been.

Dorian has witnessed the Herald's decisiveness nearly every day, in Inquisition matters. When presented with a dilemma by his advisors, he considers for several minutes, then delegates firmly, without waffling or questioning after the fact. In battle, he surveys the field, then issues commands without hesitation.

And why wouldn’t the Herald apply the same philosophy elsewhere? Dorian has never considered that during Kashek’s silent acceptance of his flirtations for weeks, the Herald was actually weighing a decision, as if strategizing at the war table. Not bashfulness that made him hesitate to respond, but consideration.

 _And now he’s decided,_ Dorian realizes with an inexplicable mix of emotions. Even he can’t quite determine what he’s feeling. Hope? Dread? Is that little shiver running down his spine merely the thrill of the chase, or perhaps a touch of fear for what he’s started? And what does the Herald actually want? More importantly, what does Dorian _want_ him to want?

A tiny voice inside knows, but he shushes it.

Silently, Dorian chides himself. He’s been like a dog chasing after a cart, never truly expecting to catch it. Now that it seems he may have, he is just as perplexed as the dog would be. This is the Herald of Andraste, the symbol of the Inquisition, quite possibly the most public figure in Thedas right now.

An iconic figure with a weakness for honeycakes, an irrational fear of spiders, and a guarded wariness that never quite leaves his eyes even when he smiles. A symbol, yes, but a man, too.

One who is asking Dorian for what? A dalliance? The simple distraction of flirtation? Or something else?

Slowly, they pass the worst of the narrow, slippery rock face, until the ledge widens enough to turn and walk normally. Dorian’s steps are still slow and cautious. By the time the ledge circles up into a flat area they can use to clamber further inland, Dorian’s heart rate should have settled, but it still beats furiously, for an entirely different reason than his brush with death.

Sera bounds up to meet them, exuberant. “That was amazing!” The bray of her trademark laughter is somehow heartening, the world returning to normal. Kashek brushes past him, but not without briefly placing a reassuring hand on Dorian’s shoulder. The Herald gives him another of those strange new smiles, then turns toward Sera’s praise.

“The rift isn’t far,” Kashek says. “Let’s go. Cole should already have eyes on the area.” Casually assuming command as usual, he strides ahead.

Sera cocks her head at Dorian, then laughs again, loud and unrestrained as usual. “You know, for a second you two looked like the cover of one of Cassandra’s dirty books.” She giggles, shakes her head, and turns to follow the Herald.

Dorian’s heart lurches briefly in his chest. But he manages a wry chuckle. “You know about those books?”

Sera snorts. She continues walking ahead, but turns to grin at him. “ _Everyone_ knows about those books. Not much good at secrets, is she, miss Seeker better-than-you, huh?”

It makes him smile. “Not particularly.”

“Yeah, well. Glad you’re not dead, I guess. Mighta been some high muckety-muck back home, kinda, but you’re not a bad sort. Here you’re little, like us, so good you didn’t die, yeah?” She scampers ahead.

Dorian shakes his head wryly and follows, his ankle throbbing again. He grits his teeth. Rift first, medicine later. _Call me overly-cautious,_ he thinks to himself, _but it is rather difficult to truly relax knowing there is a great big tear in the veil nearby. Makes one a bit nervous._

They catch up to Kashek at the top of the rise, in a small copse of flimsy trees. The rift shimmers in the air of the small valley below, casting its eerie green light on every surface.

“Two wraiths, three terrors, and one rage demon,” Kashek murmurs as they get close, pointing to each as he names them. “Pretty typical. The usual game plan?”

“Yeah,” Sera grins, readying her bow. “This spot’s good for me.”

“Pain.” Cole’s voice is quiet as usual, but is so close that Dorian startles. The spirit is kneeling next to his injured leg, one hand stretched tentatively toward his ankle. Dorian sidles away.

“You really ought to warn a soul before you go popping up like that,” he says, perhaps a bit more sharply than the boy deserves. “You’ll frighten someone to death one of these days.”

“But it hurts,” Cole replies insistently, tilting his head up to meet Dorian’s eyes from beneath the wide brim of his hat. “Prodding, pulsing pain, stabs with each heartbeat.” He pauses briefly, then continues. “The heartbeats hurt too, but for another reason.”

His chest tightens, and he darts a glance at Kashek. “Cole,” Dorian warns. Luckily, the Herald and Sera have walked several paces away, caught up in their own battle plans as they point at the hollow below.

Cole stands. His voice is gentle but unrelenting. The spirit’s gaze goes distant, looking past Dorian and at nothing. “Does he? Do I? Old hurts, will they repeat? Scared, but eager, everything different now, world shifting. Melody and harmony, weaving together, resonating. Choices, decisions that tear in two.”

 _Resonating._ Dorian closes his eyes for a moment, steadying his thoughts. “Okay, you can focus on the ankle now,” he sighs. “Please?”

“Here,” Cole slips a hand into the pouch on his belt, then hands Dorian a small vial of red liquid. “It will help. Help one of the hurts. The other is harder.” He smiles softly, an expression of reassurance, those pale eyes full of the compassion that runs inexorably through him. The spirit turns his head to regard the Herald for a few moments, then meets Dorian’s eyes again. Cole places a hand lightly on Dorian’s shoulder. His words are soft, gentle. “He does.”

And before Dorian can say anything more, Cole drifts off to join Sera and Kashek, leaving Dorian alone with one of the party’s precious healing potions and his own conflicted thoughts.


End file.
